


Anticipatory

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Exacting Standards, M/M, Obedience, Preparation, strictness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer and Hotch D/s. Spencer waits in their hotel room for Hotch after a case - he's desperate to submit tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anticipatory

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/72186) by karlarei2003. 



He frowns, frustrated, but for some reason he cannot think of an alternative position – he wants to be waiting when Hotch comes back, naked and ready. He is prepped, and the older man will be back to the hotel room in say, thirty minutes, twenty even.

He adjusts his position, tries to ignore his cock between his legs, half-hard, and between his legs he can feel the lubricant between his cheeks, feel himself open and _slick_ , and he is anticipant. He _wants_ , but this has to be better; he has to be just perfect for Hotch when he comes home.

And Hotch always worries, so Spencer's never taken an order for a holding position.

What would look best?

He steps forwards, looking at his mirror on the side of the wardrobe, and he looks at his hips, his chest – experimentally, he lets the blindfold fall slack from his left hand, putting his hands behind his back and watching the stretch to his collarbones, then puts them above his head.

Yes.

Yes, he'll sit like that.

He pulls the sheets on the bed back, and for the sixth time ensures that the condoms are neatly, prettily positioned in the ashtray on the side table, beside a case holding a set of anal beads and two bullet vibrators, a set of nipple clamps, a ball gag, all newly clean.

For the third time, he steps close to the mirror, and he plays over his lips with the pad of his finger, making sure his lips aren't chapped. His hair has been combed, he's scrubbed himself all over, his nails are neatly trimmed and cleaned, and his ass is prepped, all ready.

His hands are beginning to tremble; Spencer is so excited. He is _eager._ He finally slides onto the mattress, and he positions himself in the centre of the bed, neatly pushing aside the pillows except for the one he lays under his lower back. He blindfolds himself carefully, and then he leans back, hooking his hands in the effective bar formed by the carving of the headboard, and he brings his knees up, keeping his fleet flat.

Spencer regulates his breathing, one, two, three, in, one, two, three, out, and his eyes are closed behind the blindfold: all of his breaths are through his nose, so that his mouth looks prettier. Looks better.

The case today had been hard, but not too bad – most of the day they'd done paperwork, but they're just here for tonight, and then they'll fly home in the morning. But Hotch hadn't been too tired, Spencer hadn't been too tired – and now, Spencer will wait.

He hears the door open and he keeps his position, keeps the graceful arch of his back and his legs, keeps his neck held taught and plainly visible. The door clicks shut. There is a drawn-out pause, and Spencer has to stop himself from holding his breath.

“Stop tapping your fingers. If you can't control yourself, how can I trust you to obey me?” Spencer's hands freeze; he hadn't even realized his fingers had been shifting and moving against the wood. He lets out a low sigh of relief, and he listens carefully for Hotch's footsteps.

He comes closer, and then two fingers play over his navel, stroking slowly up the other man's chest until Hotch's hand wraps around Spencer's neck – he doesn't squeeze. He holds the other's throat for just a moment, a silent promise, and then he steps away.

“Pretty.” Hotch comments dryly, and Spencer has to stop himself from replying. He bites his lip, and he listens for the tell-tale rustle of cloth on cloth, of Hotch's clothes coming off and being neatly set aside.

He holds his position though, holds it even when he hears the chair depress with Hotch's weight, hears the turn of a page. His arms are beginning to ache from his position, and he is glad he forethought enough to put the pillow under his lower back in order to keep from moving. Hotch is _reading_ beside him, reading as if Spencer Reid isn't naked and spread out ready for him, as if Spencer hasn't already _waited_ for a little while.

They use the traffic light system. At any time, Spencer thinks, he could say “amber” and sit up straight, and Hotch would rub his aching arms and press his lips to Spencer's ear, tell him it was alright.

He could. If he was willing to be _weak._

One Mississippi. He can be strong for Hotch. Two Mississippi. He can be a good sub. Three Mississippi. He can do this.

It is somewhere around fourteen hundred Mississippi that Hotch's body is beside Reid's on the bed – he'd been so concentrated on his counting he hadn't even noticed. “Arms down.” Hotch murmurs quietly, and he supports the smaller man's back with one strong arm as he pulls the pillows behind him.

Reid can sit up then, with his back against them, and he becomes aware of the fact that in those twenty minutes or so he'd become _soaked_ with sweat, just for the virtue of remaining still. Hotch cups the back of his neck, curling his right hand in Spencer's hair, and the left spreads over the other man's chest before the index fingers settle against his collarbone.

“Aaron-” Spencer whispers, and Hotch hushes him quietly, leans and puts his mouth against Spencer's neck for just a second – he doesn't kiss the skin as he'd expected. Spencer hears the other man inhale deeply, and Hotch's inward breath is shuddering.

“Such a good submissive.” Hotch murmurs softly, and Spencer lets his head tip back into the other's hand, lets himself arch his back despite the new ache it adds to his shoulders.

“I waited for you.” Spencer whispers in a small voice.

“I know.” Hotch murmurs. “I know.” He leans and he catches Reid's mouth under his own, and all Spencer knows is Aaron Hotchner, the smell of his gun and his shampoo and his sweat from working all day, the feel of the other man's mouth on his and his hands on Spencer's body, the sound of his breathing as he draws back from the kiss.

The taste of Aaron Hotchner lingers on his tongue, and Spencer is glad for his eidetic memory so he can keep it there forever.

“Are you ready?” Hotch asks, and there is no judgement in that tone, no promise of punishment if he gives the wrong answer: it's an honest question. Reid takes in a slow breath, and he turns his head to the side – Hotch takes the silent request for what it is, and cups the side of Spencer's face, stroking over the other man's cheek with his thumb.

“Yes, Aaron.” Spencer whispers, in as polite and soft a tone as he's capable of producing. He wants to please, he wants to _be_ pleased: he wants to delight in hedonism and masochism and _submission_ at the hands of Aaron Hotchner. “I'm ready.” 


End file.
